by Maeve Haran
‘I must really thank him.’
‘I expect he’d enjoy that,’ Claire added mischievously. ‘How are all the flowers going?’
The flowers had been the last thing on Monica’s mind. ‘I’m storing them in the potting shed round the side of the house. It’s cool and dark in there, perfect for blooms. One drawback of this wonderful wildflower look is that we can’t pick them till the actual day of the wedding or they’ll look like they’ve got brewer’s droop, so it’ll be up early for me and Luigi and Giovanni. In fact, a delivery has just arrived. I’d better take them round there now.’
Monica picked up two huge boxes that had been delivered from the flower market.
The fragrance of the flowers hit her the moment she opened the door of the shed. At one end there was a wall of terracotta pots and behind it a narrow space where the wheelbarrows probably once lived. Now there were simply some old blankets and yards and yards of cobwebby fabric which Luigi must use as protection for the plants if they ever got a severe frost which, given the climate here, must be almost never.
Monica had bought a dozen brushed-steel florists’ buckets from the market and row upon row of roses waited to be made into bouquets and table centrepieces, each tied with ribbon for the big day. Timing was everything with flowers, Monica had learned. The wildflowers would be a headache, but, on the other hand, there was such a plethora of wildflowers from pale-washed anemones and wild irises, to white cyclamens and tiny blue hyacinths in the gardens and nearby wood. They would have plenty to choose from. Weaving those into headdresses with ivy should be straightforward and very striking. For the pew ends she planned narcissus, creamy camellias and orange blossom.
For the big showy displays, white peonies, lilac, and her favourite white hydrangea, Madame Emile Mouillère, all bought in the market. She’d toyed with pinks and lavenders to look like an impressionist painting but had decided an English country wedding should be white, white and white.
Gwen sat outside, sunning herself on the balcony of her room adjoining Mariella’s. She felt like an old lizard lying silently, watching out for flies. It was a very good feeling.
The time she was spending with Mariella was drawing to a close and she was thrilled. Rarely had she felt more grateful. Mariella’s selfishness was of epic proportions. She seemed, through her long life, to have acquired no self-knowledge at all. Gwen imagined that her husband Neville must be grateful to be deaf so that he could ignore all her demands.
‘Gwen!’ Mariella called out from inside the next-door room in a faint self-pitying tone. ‘I really don’t feel at all well. I’ve been up half the night in the lavatory. In fact, I’m suffering from both ends. It must be that restaurant you took me to last night. I thought there was a strange smell in the place. I bet it’s their hygiene standards. Can you come in?’
Gwen knocked on the door and a shuffling Mariella came to let her in. As far as Gwen remembered, she’d eaten a very hearty meal last night – in fact, hearty enough for a condemned man. She’d probably just overdone things.
‘I don’t think I’ll be well enough to fly tomorrow,’ Mariella protested. ‘You’ll have to get Monica over here. She can wait a day or two till I’m better and fly back with me. She’s spent quite long enough in the villa with all those women. I don’t think too many women together is a good thing. It starts to affect their hormones.’
‘What, like nuns all having their periods at the same time?’
Mariella sniffed. She didn’t like personal references. The less said about hormones or sex the better, in her view.
‘Anyway, it isn’t all female. Tony and Martin are there.’
‘It’s still high time she came home.’
‘No,’ stated Gwen simply.
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Just no. As in No, Mariella, I will not try and get Monica out here to stay with you. There is absolutely no need. Monica has her own life to lead. We’ve had our turn, now it’s theirs. Besides, you’ll probably be fine by tomorrow.’
‘But it’s the responsibility of the young to look after the old.’
‘It’s a responsibility that has to be earned. What have you ever done for Monica?’
Mariella was looking at her incredulously. ‘I have been giving her a roof over her head. It’s time she did something in return.’
‘Yes, but she won’t need a roof from you any more, thanks to her friend Constantine. If you need someone to look after you, we will find you a nice carer like everyone else has.’
‘A stranger in my home?’
‘As you’ve often told me, your home is very large. You could fit in a stranger and only see them when you chose to. You’d enjoy it. Someone new to boss about. Now, are you going to be well enough to come down to dinner? If you recall, it’s the manager’s cocktail party tonight.’
The news of this gruesome event had the immediate effect of cheering Mariella up.
‘I suppose I might make it down with a lot of help.’
‘Excellent news. I will call the concierge and get them to send somebody. Personally, it’s an occasion I prefer to avoid, full of social climbers, so I will read my book on the terrace and watch the sun going down before we return home tomorrow.’
Gwen got up and bustled to the door before the astonished Mariella could stop her.
Once in her room she sent a message to Monica.
‘Your mother fine. Ignore all calls for assistance. We are returning home tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your stay. Gwen.’
Gwen smiled as she helped herself to a Prosecco from the minibar.
Any day now Stephen would be arriving in Lanzarella.
Martin and Claire decided to go and see their son and daughter-in-law off at the airport in their hire car and get a taxi back. It was a big extravagance as the wedding with all its last-minute preparations was so soon but seeing them off seemed a lot more important than some stranger’s wedding anyway.
Claire sat in the back with Belinda while Evan drove and Martin chatted to him. Despite Belinda’s bandaged foot there was a festive air in the car. No doubt it was down to extreme relief.
‘Monica’s been nearly as worried about you as me,’ Claire told her. ‘Seeing as it was she who gave you the details of the stables.’
‘You may have noticed,’ Belinda replied teasingly, ‘that when I decide to do a thing, I do it, irrespective of what anyone else advises. I’d better watch out for that. What seems like engaging feistiness in someone young could easily turn into shameless bullying!’
Claire thought of Mariella and how true that was.
To her surprise, Belinda took her hand. ‘You seem so much more relaxed here, which is odd, seeing as people are usually most relaxed in their own homes. Maybe it was not having your home to yourselves that made you so spiky.’
‘Was I spiky?’
‘Claire!’ Belinda teased, ‘Yes, you were spiky. But then I was selfish.’
Claire squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so glad about the baby.’
Belinda patted her tummy. ‘Yes. He/she seems to be pretty determined too.’
‘Anyway,’ Belinda dropped her voice so that her father-in-law, happily chatting in the front, wouldn’t hear, ‘you may be more relaxed but what about Martin? He’s a new man!’
‘Maybe we all need to get away from ourselves sometimes.’ She leaned towards Belinda and whispered, ‘He actually hit someone the other day!’
‘No! Defending your honour?’
‘It was an unpleasant man who insulted my friend Angela and then turned on me. It was too much for Martin.’
‘He seems ten years younger. Everyone talks about this Lanzarella magic. Pity you can’t bottle it, I’d like to take some home! When are you coming back, by the way?’
Hearing this perfectly innocent question gave Claire a shock like an electric current running through her. Once they’d proved that the villa could be a successful wedding venue there was nothing more to keep her there. And now that she’d made her deci
sion about Luca she ought to go home and make some changes so that she never again felt the kind of dissatisfaction that had made her come here in the first place.
She had chosen Martin and her family over Luca. Now they had an obligation to make their life together worth the sacrifice.
Without any sign that he’d heard a word she’d said, Martin reached back, took her hand and squeezed it, still looking forwards and talking to Evan.
Belinda raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘You seem pretty well tuned in anyway.’
Their flight was on time and the wheelchair was duly waiting to whisk Belinda off.
‘I think I’ll pull this stunt every time,’ she laughed, eyeing the long queue at the check-in.
‘Bye, darling!’ Claire called to Evan.
‘Bye, Mum, Dad. Have fun.’
Claire got her iPad out on the journey home to go through the last-minute preparations.
‘Everything under control?’ Martin asked.
‘I hope so,’ Claire snapped the cover shut. ‘The trouble with spontaneous Bohemian weddings is that they’re far more fuss than the formal kind. You have to do everything at the last bloody minute!’
Claire had taken the decision to turn down Beatrice’s offer of roping in every second cousin and niece three times removed to do the waitressing in favour of using professionals. This had caused disappointment among the local maidens but great relief to Claire. She needed people who knew what they were doing. Waitressing at weddings was an art. She had seen occasions where some people had finished their meal before others were even served, and where one lot of guests had had so much wine they were drunk while others had empty glasses. All this had to be managed with experience and delicacy. Especially with the explosive Italian temperament. She had no desire to start a blood-feud that would last generations because the bride’s family thought the bridegroom’s was getting priority service.
When they got back, they found Sylvie, Monica and Angela all gathered in the garden.
‘Claire, the weirdest thing,’ Monica explained, ‘your nymph’s disappeared.’ They were standing staring into the palm-fronded pool cut into the rock where Claire had had her dip on the first morning in Lanzarella.
‘It can’t have!’ Claire peered into the watery depths, half expecting to see the nymph staring back up at her like the victim in a Swedish noir thriller, but the pool was empty.
‘She must weigh a ton! She’s life size and pure marble! What do Luigi and Giovanni have to say?’
‘Just as flummoxed as we are. She hasn’t been removed for cleaning or anything. She’s just straightforwardly disappeared.’
Staring at the empty space where the nymph had been, Claire found she wanted to cry. Without being aware of it, the statue had taken on a significance for her, an emblem, somehow, of how short a time she had been here, and what changes had happened to her since she had.
‘I hope it doesn’t end up in some garden centre or Italian scrapyard, I couldn’t bear to think of it. She always struck me as a genuine work of art, not some British aristo’s mad folly.’
‘Luckily, I took some photographs of her on my phone,’ Monica put an arm round Claire, seeing how upset she was. ‘I’ll see if Constantine can help.’
‘OK, but that can wait. Let’s get this wedding sorted. I think we should have a meeting later this afternoon: everyone should come and we can draw up a timetable. Rule one of successful entertaining – always have a timetable.’ Monica looked at her, impressed. ‘Yes,’ Claire grinned, ‘I’m channelling my inner Angela. Four p.m. here. I’ll make sure the staff are all assembled, plus our head waitress. Can you organize Sylvie and Angela? Luigi and Giovanni will be here in a minute anyway to put out the trestle tables and chairs. If you want me, I’ll be in the kitchen.’ She grinned at Monica. ‘For about the next thirty-six hours!’
The next thing Claire did was to check the weather forecast. She was never happier to see a perfect yellow sun smile back at her from her phone. Tomorrow was going to be beautiful.
Twenty
‘Quiet, everybody.’ Trying to shut up a room full of excited Italians was a fresh challenge to Claire but she found a new and effective technique. Pointing her wooden spoon accusingly at anyone who didn’t toe the line.
The trestle tables were all assembled on the terrace under the awning together with the wondrous assortment of borrowed chairs which were covered in every fabric from imperial purple velvet to a garish copy of Royal Stuart tartan. Claire just hoped Marco’s family understood the concept of laid-back boho. Otherwise, they’d just think the villa had been sold a job lot in a junk shop.
‘I think they look terrific,’ Angela congratulated. ‘Very Kate Moss. Especially with the white tablecloths and the silverware.’
Claire had to admit that she agreed. They had gone with the shabby chic idea and sourced non-matching plates and brightly coloured napkins. The whole look seen against a bright blue sky had the festive air of a country fete which she hoped the families would appreciate. It was certainly different from the stuffy formality she had seen in the photographs she’d studied of Italian weddings.
‘How are the flowers coming along, Monica?’ Angela enquired.
‘Excuse me,’ Monica teased her, ‘but I think Claire’s running this meeting!’
Angela smiled and sat back down, not in the slightest bit offended.
‘As a matter of fact, they’re gorgeous, especially the bouquets. Luigi, Giovanni and myself are getting up tomorrow at six a.m. to pick the wildflowers.’
There was a snigger from Giovanni which made Monica think of naughty prep-school boys telling each other dirty jokes.
She looked at him quellingly. Really, if he undid another button of his shirt it would fall off.
‘I hope you’re at your best in the early morning, Giovanni. I don’t want to spend hours trying to wake you up.’
‘Chiara mia, I am always at my best.’ Giovanni slouched sexily forward, looking so much like the local bounder that he was that Claire wanted to laugh out loud.
‘Excellent. Luigi, can you make sure the church will be open so that we can decorate it? Make extra sure we have their permission. Mr Moretti will help out if there are any problems. He seems to be an old friend of the parish priest.’ Claire produced a timetable and seating plans, agreed by the bride and groom.
‘Here is the list of what needs to happen when. I will put one outside as well. There are very few places for cars to stop, so we have organized valet parking round the back of the villa. ‘Sylvie, what is happening with Daniela and the bridesmaid’s dresses?’
‘I have created a Bride’s Room in the wing. Daniela and the bridesmaids can get changed there. They will then be driven to the church for the wedding. But, coming back, Monica has booked a little Italian band to accompany them as they walk back with all their guests. A touch of the medieval.’
‘They always used to do it before weddings got so formal,’ Monica explained. ‘Then all the village can come out and cheer them on their way.’
‘What a lovely idea,’ congratulated Claire. ‘Now. Daniela says she has a special surprise for her husband.’
‘She is full of surprises, that one,’ Giovanni murmured.
‘After they cut the cake, she is going to release a dozen white doves to celebrate the purity of their love for each other.’
Behind her Claire heard Giovanni distinctly snigger.
‘Well, I think it’s a very sweet gesture,’ Sylvie looked at him darkly, ‘but where are these birds going to be kept?’
‘They come with their own handlers, thank God. They’ll stay round the side of the house until they’re needed, but we need someone to make sure they aren’t seen. Can you do that, Giovanni, or are you going to stand there behaving like a lounge lizard?’
‘What is lounge lizard?’ smouldered Giovanni.
‘Oh forget it. Martin, could you take on the doves of purity?’
Martin nodded, grinning.
‘What is t
he matter with Giovanni?’ Claire hissed at the others. ‘I mean, he’s not exactly the subtle type, but he’s ten times worse than usual. The cat that got the cream is the image that’s springing to my mind.’
‘Maybe weddings excite him,’ suggested Sylvie. ‘The thought of all those marital high-jinx probably sets off his testosterone.’
‘Giovanni’s testosterone levels are already a health hazard. I think someone should keep an eye on him.’ Claire looked at Giovanni suspiciously.
‘Well, he’s hardly going to run off with the bride. Not at this late stage. Anyway, he’s nowhere near rich enough. Daniela’s far too mercenary.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
Soon, however, they had other more pressing problems to worry about. They were all sitting on the terrace, exhausted but satisfied, feeling that they had done all they could achieve for today.
‘I don’t like the look of those,’ Angela suddenly commented, leaning out on the balustrade. Over on the horizon were unfamiliar thick grey clouds that, to English eyes, looked ominously like rain.
‘I’m sure they’ll blow over,’ Claire said hopefully.
But half an hour later the clouds had arrived in Lanzarella. They weren’t, in fact, rain but a thick pea-souper of a fog.
‘Oh my God.’ Claire’s optimism was finally evaporating. ‘It’s like London in the forties.’
‘Apparently, it’s quite common at this time of year.’ Angela had been doing some investigating. ‘It’s a well-known local weather phenomenon. Last year they were shooting a big Hollywood movie here and they had to stop for a day.’
‘Why do I not find that comforting?’ Claire demanded.
‘The locals in the piazza say it’ll be fine for the wedding. They’re all booking their places in the queue to watch.’
Claire dropped her head into her hands. ‘Here am I trying to achieve The Darling Buds of May and we’ll end up with a Hammer House of Horror.’
Angela hugged her. ‘Time to go inside, pull the curtains and open a nice bottle of something.’
‘But what happens when we open the curtains tomorrow and it’s still like this?’
